My Night with Dean Winchester
by Mali Bear's Buddy
Summary: 1st person POV. Straight fantasy. You could be the leading lady! High T to soft M for language and adult situations. Formerly titled "The Rest of Mr. Mouth", now a one-shot-series!
1. The Rest of Mr Mouth

**A/N:** Another one for Twitter pal Lisa (reportergirl123). Holy crap the pic that inspired this was HOT! Makes me wanna take Dean's hand, climb into his bed, curl under the covers and never come out. Thanks for the inspiration!

And for **stephaniew**...who I apparently owe a new iPad 2. Steph is an amazing friend, writer and beta. Check her out!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Supernatural._

The Rest of Mr. Mouth

I've gotten myself into any number of complicated situations. This one is really no exception. If my mother could see me now she'd...

Yeah. I can't think about that. I'm already feeling self conscious enough about the lacy boy-cut panties and tank top I'm wearing. Which is weird because he's already seen me naked. He knows about the freckle on my left hip and the scar from when I had my appendix removed.

I sit perched on the edge of the overstuffed chair in the corner of my bedroom. My fingers curl around a cup of coffee. It's my favorite mug. It's got butterflies on it and it makes me think of spring.

Good lord. I'm rambling, aren't I? Jesus.

I guess it's because I'm nervous. I don't usually bring strange men home with me. And I certainly don't randomly take them to bed. You probably think I'm promiscuous. Because all the promiscuous girls _say _they don't do this kind of thing, don't they? Shit.

I run a hand through my hair. The night's events drift through my head and I'm reminded precisely just how talented Mr. Mouth's lips and tongue are. It makes me want to go over there and peel the covers back and show him what I can do with _my _mouth.

Oh, God. I did not just think that. Wow. There's trouble and then there's...

He shifts in the bed. Laying on his stomach, he rolls his shoulders and pushes slightly up. His back is incredible. I mean, the eyes and the mouth are insanely hot, but his body? It puts the statue of David to shame.

Perfectly sculpted muscles in hard lines under the softest skin you can imagine. Broad hold-on-tight-while-I-rock-your-world shoulders, veeing down into a narrow waist. I love that shape on a man. You know what I'm talking about, ladies. When the shoulders are so wide and the waist is so chiseled that it draws your eyes down and makes you wonder about the package below.

The kind of body that'd make you whistle even if you don't know how. He looked good clothed, but getting him naked? Feeling the ripple of his washboard abs beneath my fingers? Yeah. I think I could die right now, because that was _definitely _the best sex I've ever or will ever have.

There isn't much about him that isn't big. Big, rough hands. Big, broad shoulders. And you know what they say about men with big feet - and I don't mean they wear big shoes.

I'm sore all over. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. It's that delicious ache you get when you have amazing sex and your body is stretched and pushed to the brink.

He turns toward me, lifting his head from the pillow and rubbing his eye with his knuckles. The blanket slips further down his hips and nearly exposes the contours of his flawless ass. It takes a great deal of effort not to crane to see the junk in that trunk.

"Hey," he says, his voice husky with sleep in a way that rubs me raw and makes me want. I wonder if he'll just get up and leave. Make some lame excuse about needing to be somewhere. "You been up long?"

I shake my head, trying to smile softly as I steel myself for the rejection I'm sure is coming. The _thanks-for-last-night-but..._

He stretches his arm in my direction. It's almost like the pull of the sun. I remember the weight and feel of it around me. I remember the scrape of his calloused fingers over my nipples. I remember every stroke and tease against my skin. And I feel myself tugged by the gravitational pull of feeling more.

His eyes follow the sway of my hips as I move back toward the bed. They drop to the coffee cup and, for a split second, I think that's what he's really after when he takes it from my hand. It's barely on the nightstand before I'm on my back beneath him.

He presses me into the mattress, a tangle of linens wrapping around our legs. His mouth - that gorgeous, talented mouth - ravages mine. His tongue teases as I feel him stirring against my thigh.

Well. Hello and good morning. That's nice. _Very_ nice.

His hand skims up my side, pushing beneath my camisole. His mouth continues to torment and tease me. And I'm not even going to lie. It's absolute heaven.

"Don't start unless you plan to finish," I say breathlessly as his lips travel down my neck.

His chuckle - the deep, rich tone of his laugh - is like a jolt of electricity. Wait. That wasn't his laugh. It was his hand slipping into my panties.

His voice is as rough as the hands he's using to work me over. I feel more alive that I have in..._ever. _ "Oh, I plan to do more than just finish..."


	2. The Way He Moves

**A/N: **As promised earlier in the week, the Dean version of _My Night with..._

If you aren't reading the Sam version of this story, here's the 411: I was asked to consider writing more of these little shorts and had already been planning to because they're a fun little break from some of the heavier pieces I'm working on. If you have something you'd like to see, please PM or leave a review?

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Supernatural._

The Way He Moves

He walked in like he owned the place. Slow and steady, with the occasional 'How-you-doin'?' nod. It was cocky and more than a little arrogant, but it made every woman in the joint want to give up her panties. Including me and, while I may be experienced, I'm not easy.

It was the slight pivot - the even turn of his narrow hips - that told me, given an opportunity, I'd be exactly where I am now. On my back, pinned between the heat of his hard body and the sandpaper of cheap motel sheets.

Every man's touch is different - trust me, I've had my share of lovers - but there's something about Dean's...if that's really even his name. His fingers are roughened by callouses of a man who's not afraid of a day's hard work, but the way he uses them to manipulate my body sets my skin on fire.

It's the slow scrape of his thumb over my nipple. The snag of his hand as it glides down the contrastingly silk skin of my side. The grip he uses to angle my hips to receive his thrusts. He's passionately thorough, leaving no part untouched by his hands, his eyes, his mouth. The gentleness - the way he seems to be able to find all my little trigger points in a way men I've had relationships with couldn't - is startling. It makes me weak. Makes me want more. Wonder if I can get enough. If I'll remember how I feel right now.

I've had orgasms before (mostly self induced), but this time I see stars. I swear the man is getting off on getting me off. When I shudder, my body tightening reflexively around his, he slows and draws everything out. Kisses me. Helps me ride it out. Pushes me that much further.

_Le petit mort_. The little death. I died in his arms more than once tonight. Lemme tell you: what a way to go...


End file.
